Writing about me

I’ve started a post about my eighth grade experience at a Collage Preporatory Academy for Young Men. It was the start of five long years.

Right off the bat I was an outcast. In a swarm of tight pressed bluejeans (Levi’s), exposing dark crew socks covered in brown penny loafers with a paisley shirt above the belt line; my drab plaid cotton shirt with baggy pants featuring a generous drop and the clincher, extremely robust black oxford corrective shoes with an anti-scrape patch on the toes — I might as well had a sign pasted to my back, “Kick Me!”

And I did. Over and over some piece of paper with a directive to punch, kick, trip or push was stuck on my back. The directives were followed with frequency.

Oh well, here is some context for what I’ve started in another post. More will come. I let myself go far too long without writing.